


made to bleed

by QueenPersephoneofHades



Category: Naruto
Genre: 2016 HashiMada Minibang, Angst, Friendship, Gen, M/M, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-01
Updated: 2016-08-07
Packaged: 2018-07-28 16:52:18
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 4,210
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7648903
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/QueenPersephoneofHades/pseuds/QueenPersephoneofHades
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Theirs isn't exactly the story to base happy endings on.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Day 1: Creation/Destruction

“MADARA!”

The cry is shrill in the still air, bouncing off the rocks of the riverbank and practically deafening the boy who had once been lounging carelessly in the sun. He most definitely did not _yelp_ at the assault on his eardrums, but he did clap his hands over his ears with a theatrically big wince.

He sat up from his relaxed position, glaring across the sparkling water at the figure rapidly sprinting toward him with the biggest, dumbest grin he’d ever seen.

“Moron!” Madara snapped, quite expertly ignoring the loosening knot in his chest at the sight of his friend uninjured and just as obnoxious as usual. “Wanna yell a little louder next time?! Let the whole damn world know where we are?! And you call yourself a shinobi!”

Hashirama froze mid-step and nearly collapsed in the middle of the river, crouching down in a dark cloud of depression like the complete idiot he was. “You’re right, of course I should be quieter, that’s the mark of a true ninja, and being that loud puts us in danger-” The quiet mutterings of despair had gotten old a long time ago, and Madara had to resist snapping something that would make the situation worse; Hashirama wasn’t like his little brothers, who snarled and bit like rabid wolves and often gave as good as they got when caught in an argument. No, Hashirama folded up like a collapsed tent and drew into his own little world of guilt and self-pity.

Hashirama was _weird,_ but in a good way, and if you wanted him to cooperate the right way you couldn’t yell at him. Too much. Madara still ended up yelling more often than not, but it was the thought that counted, right?

With a roll of his eyes and his arms crossed disapprovingly like his father’s often were, Madara cast the odd excuse for a shinobi a calculating look and fought off an exasperated sigh. “Okay, okay, enough of that. What was it you were yelling so loudly about? It better have been for a good reason, or I really will kick your ass today!”

It was like flipping a switch; one second squatting on top of the river like an overgrown frog, the next Hashirama was bounding the last few feet to the shore, grin bright as the sun and not even a hint of depressed gloom anywhere on his person.

Weird. But good weird, mostly.

When he touched down in front of Madara, Hashirama cast him a smaller, secretive sort of smile, the one that promised something interesting during their spars, and despite himself Madara found his heart kicking up a little at the thought.

“I figured out the most _amazing_ jutsu yesterday!” Hashirama gushed in a near whisper, evidently taking the lecture on shinobi being quiet to heart, making Madara lean forward a little to hear him properly.

His arms stayed crossed, but Madara could admit the eyebrow rising above his left eye was a _bit_ curious. “So? Are you going to spend the whole day yelling about it or are you going to show me?”

The grin became impossibly bigger, as if he’d been waiting for just those words; spinning around, Hashirama flashed rapidly through a set of hand-signs Madara didn’t recognize, crouching close to the ground as he did so. Against his better judgement, Madara crouched beside him, arms finally dropped to his sides as he watched the concentrated flush on his friends’ face.

Very, very slowly, one stone in front of them shifted. Another trembled before following its brother and falling away.

Any sarcastic comment Madara could have offered was quickly stifled by the tiny sapling quickly growing out of the ground in front of them, sprouting leaves and thin, gangly branches even as it barely reached the height of their knees.

It _was_ kind of impressive, he could admit that in his own head at least, but there was no need for Hashirama to get so excited about something so tiny; to prove just that point, Madara flashed through his own set of seals and spat a tiny fireball right at the leaves on the mini treetop.

The flash of light and smoke broke Hashirama’s concentration and he fell backward with an indignant cry. “ _Madara!_ What was _that_ for?!”

“You grow excellent kindling, Hashirama,” Madara pointed out, holding his hands out in front of the little fire to warm them as if it were obvious. “Now we can have bonfires anywhere we want!”

A wordless cry preceded a tackle Madara saw coming from a mile away, but he didn’t bother dodging; he just laughed loudly on the way down.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Kid-Mads and Kid-Hashi, back before the angst started. Ah, good times.


	2. Day 2: Acceptance/Denial

Hashirama is positive that someday he is going to see Madara on the opposite side of a battlefield.

They fight often (mostly because of Hashirama’s silliness and Madara’s brutishness) and they spar with everything they’ve got, doing their best to one up each other in a match of strength, whether it be physical or mental. But for all their bickering and attacking one another they don’t bear any _real_ animosity toward each other.

They’re friends, have been since they first skipped stones together in the blistering summer heat, but that doesn’t mean a lot in war; he’s heard the half-cut off boasts about eyes and seen Madara’s adept skill at using every sort of fire jutsu he can think of. It’s not exactly hard to deduce what clan he comes from.

They’ll meet in battle for real one day in the future, he knows that. But that sure as hell doesn’t mean he accepts it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Today's drabble is really short, I didn't have much time to write today. Sorry :/


	3. Day 3: Communication/Avoidance

The arguments over their ridiculous childhood dream are to be expected. They always have been.

From the moment they first met on the opposite sides of a battlefield instead of a riverbank, Madara has become used to being singled out, picked from the crowd of dark-haired red-eyed Uchiha men like a beacon fire amidst a forest in the night, led away from the main conflict to be evenly matched, blow for blow against his rival, his enemy, the fool so eternally caught up in the words spoken between two oblivious children that he constantly yammers on about it even as they’re actively trying to kill each other.

“We’re friends, Madara!” Hashirama always yells aloud, no past tense at all; in his deranged head, they are still friends, always have been, always will be, even as gouts of flame singe the tips of his hair and he tosses a spear of wood right back without the slightest flinch. “We can still show the others that fighting isn’t the way! We can bring peace, the Senju and the Uchiha, together!”

“Do you ever get tired of living in a fantasy?” Madara asks, an edge of frustration in his tone, because this whole exchange is so familiar, _too_ familiar; they’ve had it a hundred times, a thousand times, on a hundred thousand different battlefields, tossing shuriken and words and jutsu at each other over and over like it will eventually solve the problem. If it were someone else – _anyone else_ – Madara would have gotten annoyed a long time ago, would have cleaved the man’s head from his shoulders instead of listening to his useless drivel again.

The dreams of children don’t belong here, in the blood drenched earth and the flame-scorched sky of war, but Hashirama persists like a bad itch, his words impossible to scratch at and get rid of.

Because the man is annoying and persistent and stupid as he was when he was thirteen – because apparently maturity is unheard of among the Senju – and peace is just an unreachable goal that the world will never attain, and that’s simply the way things are.

His words should mean nothing by now, should be easy to ignore and push out of his mind with the ease long repetition affords you.

But he can’t.

The compelling itch of those words, the familiarity that stays his blade, the _meaning_ is not lost on him, not now, not even after everything that’s happened in between; the wondrous babbling they’d exchanged on the clifftop still rings in his head, echoes through his brain and reverberates though his skull:

_“Somehow, someway, we’ll build a peace that will last for generations!”_

_“A village we can call our own.”_

_“A place where children can grow up!”_

_“Somewhere to keep my little brother safe.”_

He hasn’t forgotten a single word of it, not since the day skipping stones became defending each other from their own families.

He hasn’t forgotten, but as he sees proud clansmen and brave comrades alike fighting and dying all around them, he shoves the sentiment out of his head.

His blade rises, his stance shifts, and his Sharingan traces the roots lurking just beneath the earth.

“No more talk, Hashirama,” he says, though he can feel something sour in his mouth – _not guilt, gods forbid._ “Come.”


	4. Day 4: Pain/Healing

He shadows Madara directly after the treaty ramification, trailing him out of the meeting hall and into the trees surrounding it.

He can hear Tobirama calling after him, likely to berate him over how rude and witless he is being, but Hashirama has had enough stiff-backed small talk with shifty-eyed Uchiha and his own jumpy clansmen for one day; besides, his brother has always been better suited to that sort of work. They’ll be fine without him

Besides, he has a friend to talk to.

He and Madara hadn’t had the chance to talk while the elders were laying old grievances to rest and everyone started signing line after line on a piece of parchment at least four yards long with the many clauses and conditions of the Senju-Uchiha treaty laid out completely on it.

Madara had been tight-lipped and pensive every second anyone had so much as opened their mouth, and the bare shred of respect the other Uchiha had at least tried to show the Senju was completely absent in their leader’s muted sneer.

The disdain hadn’t been surprising, nor had been the cool, venomous glares aimed at Tobirama.

What was surprising was that Madara hadn’t said _anything at all._

Dozens upon dozens of arguments in their youth had taught Hashirama one thing: if Uchiha Madara had an opinion, you were going to hear it, whether you wanted to or not, and on your head be it if you tried to interrupt him before he’d had his fill with words.

In their fights since then, Madara had usually kept quiet, but he’d definitely never passed up on a chance to leave a scathing comment in between blows if he really wasn’t in the mood to hear Hashirama’s regular spiel of peace and happiness being achievable if they simply stopped fighting.

But now….

Now, after Izuna, after Madara’s attempted suicide attack on the Senju, after Hashirama’s own attempt to take his own life to appease his friend…

Now, the Senju and the Uchiha were finally allies, the war was one step closer to over, the village he’d been constructing in his head for the past decade had a chance of becoming reality.

Hashirama had everything he had ever wanted.

Except Madara wasn’t talking to him. He wasn’t talking _at all,_ and Madara had ripped his dying brother’s eyes out of his head, and everything was going so perfectly but it was _wrong wrong wrong._

Madara’s wish had been to protect Izuna.

Izuna was dead, by Tobirama’s hand no less.

So Hashirama followed Madara out of the meeting.

It was a lot easier than he’d expected; for all his skills Madara was distracted, and Hashirama had improved his skills in stealth years ago. Or perhaps the Uchiha was purposefully turning a blind eye to the shadow sprinting after him through the trees. It was always hard to tell with him.

They didn’t talk – couldn’t, in Hashirama’s case; he’d forgotten how damn fast Madara could be when he really _moved_ – didn’t acknowledge each other for hours as they moved through the canopy.

Hashirama knew where they were going, ages before they got there.

The Uchiha had a massive memorial stone located several miles within their own territory, territory that technically was shared with the Senju now. It was covered in names chiseled into the rock, with the names and birth and death dates of every clan member who had lived and died throughout the years.

Some of the names were so old they ‘d been weathered away almost completely by the elements, but Izuna’s name was still legible and would likely remain that way for a long time with the way Madara kept caring for it.

Madara cleaned and took care of the entire memorial even though the stone reached above his head and was twice the length of his arms, but the spot in front of his family’s names was where he spent most of his time. With his fallen parents and brothers. They took precedence over the rest of the clan. They always had.

And Hashirama wants to say _something,_ come barreling out of the shadows and sweep Madara off to make plans and perhaps help him sort out his feelings over his last little brother’s death, whatever he was able to talk about without getting scorched by ravenous fire.

But looking at Madara’s rigid shoulders, watching his mechanical movements all around the stone and the names carved into it, seeing the decidedly blank look in the eyes that had once belong to Uchiha Izuna, guilt and shame quietly pooled in Hashirama’s gut.

Along with all his ridiculous talent at fighting and healing wounds, he was incredibly sympathetic and quick to console anyone who’d lost a loved one, but…

What were you supposed to say when your own brother had murdered the last of someone’s family?

That was the sort of pain even his bright demeanor couldn’t fix.

He let Madara be alone. For years to come, he would regret that decision more than anything.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A day late and a dollar short; didn't have a lot of time yesterday, but you're probably not interested in my excuses. Today's drabble should hopefully be up in a few hours, but no promises!


	5. Day 5: Destiny/Free Will

The first step he takes into the measly Senju camp Hashirama excitedly proclaims will be the roots that their village will be grown from, Madara very nearly spins on his heel and stalks back the way he came, peace treaty be damned. It’s just a damned piece of paper covered in meaningless ink, little more than fire kindling; symbolic of nothing more than the wavering words of traitorous thieving murderers, with absolutely no connection to the thousands of shinobi who had lived and bled and died to keep these two families separate and safe from each other.

But Hashirama, of course, notices his stiffening posture, has been keeping an eye on him since the moment their hands had met at the signing, expression shifting between wondrous disbelief and wary hope, clearly expecting such a reaction at some point.

Sure enough, as Madara prepares to turn around and bowl right through the group of delegates the Uchiha had sent along with him, an arm comes slithering around his shoulders and traps him against his self-proclaimed oldest friend’s side. The steely glare he levels at the dimwit seems to have no effect at all on the sunny smile stretching across Hashirama’s face; in fact, he seems downright _delighted_ by such a hostile reaction.

“Come on, I’ll show you around!” the taller man exclaims, quickly sweeping the Uchiha along with him before a word of protest can be offered. Madara can see many of his clansmen sharing rather flabbergasted looks when he doesn’t immediately incinerate the fool, but he’s too busy trying to keep his feet under him to really try asserting any authority here.

He’s not in charge here, not even of the Uchiha; they haven’t listened to him in ages, but they aren’t blind. They know how much Hashirama respects and cares for him, so he’s still in a position of power, if only in name. They likely won’t oust him from the clan hierarchy until the village is well and truly settled, and Madara can’t blame them after the utter disaster he was after his brother’s death.

But apparently he isn’t allowed to brood over his inevitable fall from grace, because Hashirama starts talking animatedly right in his ear. “I’m thinking of setting a market around here because of the central location, and perhaps we can start building the homes just outside there. I’m not sure how many farms we could actually keep inside of the village, so maybe they could be on the outskirts? I mean they’d still be within our protection but there’d be enough space for them to-”

It’s kind of surprising how easy it is to tune him out after how difficult it had been for the last decade, but Madara accomplishes it with little difficulty.

They’d dreamed and planned for this village in all hours of the day and night, at the river together or alone in their respective clan’s camps, all throughout that long summer they’d befriended each other, but Madara hadn’t bothered to keep track of those fleeting plans after they’d been so harshly torn apart, and he can’t bring himself to jump right back into it here, now, even though that dream is about to start coming true.

He honestly doesn’t _care_ which stores go where and how each clan’s compound will be built and maintained.

Long term plans won’t mean much when they’ll be ripping each other’s throats out within the year.

Because call it his more pessimistic side rearing its ugly head, but he’s positive this won’t last longer than a month, perhaps two at the most. They probably won’t even manage to complete any of the buildings before this all falls apart.

That’s just the way they are, in the end. They’ve always been this way, and they always will be. This flimsy peace is just a variation in the equation, soon to be set back into the status quo.

… however, he amends at the sight of Hashirama’s beaming grin and the relaxed air of even the most serious Senju and Uchiha warriors he’s seen on the battlefield, that isn’t necessarily true, not this time.

Changing fate is exactly why they’re here in the first place, isn’t it? Even if he couldn’t change Izuna’s… well. It’s worth the effort to at least try, he can admit that, even if he doesn’t completely believe it will work.

So he sets his mouth in a line, bites his tongue, and follows along with his enthusiastic escort, even though the futility of the entire venture is flatly evident to him.

Somehow, someway, this will all come crashing down on them; only question is, who will the survivors amidst the rubble be?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I had like no motivation for the prompt today, sorry if it got all ramble-y in there.


	6. Day 6: Convergence/Departure

There is a storm cloud on the horizon. It doesn't appear to be moving in the direction of the village, seems miles and miles away, is little more than a distant gray speck on the very edge of the stretch of blue.

Madara watches it idly, like a moth drawn to a flame; he was never easily distracted, not in his entire life since his murky-forgotten days as a toddler. His mind was razor sharp and lightning fast, quick to find a problem and a solution between one breath and the next, constantly striding forward into greater and greater stakes and coming out as steady and strong as before, claiming another victory for the Uchiha whether in a fight or in the delicate balance that was ever-shifting clan allegiances. He wasn’t called a genius just for his skill with jutsu or prowess with a sword.

He was never easily distracted, before.

Izuna is gone. The clan he’d sworn his life to have been ignoring his counsel for the better part of a decade now. The village he’d first fought so vehemently against, then risked every fiber of his being to build alongside his former enemies, disapproves of his ‘arrogant warmongering’ and ‘obvious clan favoritism’.

There are too many problems now, with no solutions in sight for his brilliant brain, which is commonly lauded as the most excellent strategic mind in the newly-developing Elemental Countries.

Too many problems, not enough solutions, no point in finding those solutions.

Without Izuna to jabber incessantly in his ear, without his clans’ worries to handle, he’s found himself… drifting, more often than not.

Each day comes and goes, sometimes agonizingly long, other times over in the blink of an eye, and for some reason Madara can’t bring himself to care that he’s losing all track of time. No one says anything about it to him, and he probably wouldn’t care even if they did.

There is a storm cloud on the horizon, the one imperfection in an ocean of crystal blue.

He studies it like it’s an especially unique and interesting puzzle, something he can slowly reconfigure into something else instead of just an imminent storm.

It doesn’t float freely across the sun and sky like a normal cloud, going wherever it wants whenever it wants, like he had once upon a time, back before one last brother was placed into the ground and most everything lost its meaning.

It lingers in place, heavy and ominous, threatening lightning and thunder and rain on the landscape below it, and awareness pierces him like a sword; it reminds him of _him,_ here and now, where a man wearing a ridiculous hat and the sigil of the Senju put him on a leash and told him to yield. 

* * *

He walks through the half-finished front gate of the village, ignorant of the surprised eyes and suspicious glares he garners along the way, clad only in clan-typical dark fabric and carrying no supplies other than a single sealing scroll.

He walks away from the dream he’d outgrown years ago, the dream he’d lost to the Senju and failed to reclaim, hardly bothered to fight for anymore.

He walks toward the horizon, where bright shining cerulean leeches into numb, freezing gray, the one place that feels right.

He doesn’t look back.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Madara is super easy for me to write because I can get into his mindset... that's a bit scary to think about.


	7. Day 7: Preparing for War

His red plated war armor settles on his shoulders for the first time in years, nowhere near as foreign as the dark robes he’d taken to wearing outside of missions. The metal is scratched and dented in several places, where he hadn’t bothered to clean it after his last battle with the Senju.

He straps on the rest of his gear, slowly, efficiently, and it’s like coming up for air, like waking up from a long overdue nap and discovering everything you expected to be different is still exactly the same as you left it.

It’s _relief,_ and it hits him so hard his legs quake.

He’s _aware_ , truly, perhaps for the first time since Izuna’s death, and the ice of horrified guilt in his heart is tempered by the burning rage in his gut; that he would set his last little brother’s death aside and work alongside his murderer to build a village that would eventually eat their clan alive is an insult to Izuna’s very memory – _he should’ve **listened** to him, should **never** have trusted the Senju_ – but he reins it into the treacherous calm before the storm.

Uchiha Madara is awake again, no longer the docile creature the Senju thought they could tame with honeyed words of tranquility and happiness for generations to come, as if the Uchiha will actually last for longer than perhaps half a century under the rule of biased, hateful Senju instead of falling to quick and ruthless genocide the second things go even a little bit wrong.

He has read the tablet; it may as well be a prediction for the future.

They are traitors, they hate him, but they are still Uchiha, still clan; for Izuna if no one else, he will try to bring freedom to them through the Eye of the Moon, whether they’re worthy of it or not.

But first, of course, there is the matter of wiping the rest of that pathetic village off the face of the earth.

* * *

The red plated armor sliding onto his shoulders is a half-forgotten weight, the smell of fresh polish and glimmering sheen of fire light reflecting off the surface making it even stranger; Hashirama has barely even looked at his old gear since the wars ended. Who could have cleaned it?

His answer comes in the form of Tobirama hurriedly snapping several hard to reach fastenings together with practiced movements, fingers more accustomed to this then to holding a pen and filling in paperwork.

“Madara’s smashed through every barrier we have set between here and the border with Kumogakure; what scouts have survived and managed to outpace him say he’s riding a _giant demon fox._ He’ll be here within the hour; I’ll have the chunin start evacuating all the civilians to the designated safe areas and put together a squad to accompany-”

“No.”

Tobirama meets his eyes, sharp, defiant, protests ready on his tongue, and they all die without his brother having to say a word. The sorrow and resignation is plain to see; he never wanted it to come to this, never wanted this for the man he’d thought was his friend; had thought was something more, in a moment of a dream now shattered on the ground.

Senju Hashirama prepares for war against his dearest friend, and knows, with utter certainty, that whomever lives through this fight, they’ll both lose in the end.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Today's prompt was free to choose, so of course I chose the parallels in how they prepared for one last war. Of course, they have no idea they'll meet one more time in battle after this, but perhaps I'll write about that at another time.
> 
> For now, The End.


End file.
